Whispering Bones (4 page)

“Good.” Massimo placed a hand over the small curve of her stomach. “We will have our baby, Rosaria,” he whispered in her ear. “He will be strong and healthy, and he will look like you, God willing.”

Tears welled up in Rosaria’s eyes at his words. How she prayed they would come true. After two miscarriages in the past year, she was desperate to carry this child to term. But all she could think of was the look of disappointment on Massimo’s face when he’d learned of her previous failed pregnancies.

“Come,” he said, brushing her tears away, “only good thoughts, remember?”

She nodded and hugged him tight, both comforted and made anxious by his hopeful words.

* * * *

Dr. Rossi frowned at the nurse who knocked at the door, interrupting his lunch, which he’d been forced to take in his office today due to his heavy schedule. “Yes? What is it?”

The nurse walked timidly across the room and held out a cream-colored envelope, the flap of which was secured with the official red seal of the city. “This was just delivered for you,
Dottore
. I thought you would want to see it right away.”

He dismissed the woman with a nod and studied the return address before tearing open the envelope. After reading the contents of the letter, his face broke into a wide smile. The paper he had written last year on a new and experimental technique that had been introduced to treat the mentally ill and the apparent beneficial results of the procedure known as leucotomy had been noticed, and by the right people. The letter officially acknowledged his appointment as head surgeon at the newly constructed psychiatric facility on the nearby island of Poveglia.

He left, telling his patients in the adjoining waiting room he’d be back shortly, and hurried out of the building toward his house, wanting to share his good news with Serafina. He would tell her to prepare the children and be ready in her finest dress on his return home from the office this evening. They would be dining out tonight. News such as he had just received most definitely called for a celebration.

Venice, Italy

Present Day

At half-past two that afternoon, Venice time, the Alitalia jet bearing Anna toward her destination began its descent to Marco Polo International Airport. The day was clear, and the aerial view of Venice spectacular. Anna’s excitement mounted as she looked out the window to see the sparkling Adriatic, the Venetian lagoon and the instantly recognizable landmarks of San Marco and the Grand Canal. She’d been en route for the past thirteen hours, but had managed to get in several hours’ sleep on the plane to Rome. The unsettled feeling of the previous day had disappeared, replaced by the excitement of knowing she was about to embark on one of the most important steps in her career.

Although she’d traveled to Italy several times, she’d only been to Venice once before, with her father after her mother had passed away. Only five or six years old at the time, she remembered very little of it. If time permitted, she hoped to take in some of the architectural splendors of the Renaissance city during her visit.

Once the plane landed, she didn’t have long to wait for her baggage. After placing her luggage in a cart, she walked a few yards to the shuttle bus that would take her to the boat pier. At the dock, she opted to take a water taxi to the hotel, even though the driver quoted a fare of a hundred euros. The public
vaporetto
cost only twenty-five euros, but would entail a longer walk with her luggage. Within five minutes, her bags were loaded into the water taxi and she stepped onto the polished wooden boat with six other passengers. With its leather-upholstered cabin and open-air seating in the stern, Anna realized these boats were probably the equivalent of a limousine on land.

Mesmerized by the stunning view of the canal and the ancient facades of the structures rising out of the water on either side of her, the boat ride to her hotel ended all too soon for Anna. Before she knew it, the water taxi had pulled up before the Hotel Gritti Palace on the Grand Canal, the accommodation arranged for her by Falcone, and she disembarked.

Anna had to marvel at the VIP treatment afforded to her by Falcone and his company as she entered the lobby of the world-class hotel. She had looked the hotel up online, but the pictures did not do it justice. The structure, she knew, had been the palace of a doge in the sixteenth century, a place that had once welcomed kings and queens. Anna stepped across the thick Persian carpet to a massive and elaborately carved registration desk to check in. When she gave her name, the concierge turned to the wall of pigeon-holes behind the desk and removed a sealed envelope from one of the slots, which he handed to her. “A message for you,
Signorina
.”

Anna opened the envelope and read the note contained within:

Dear Ms. LaServa,

Welcome to Venice. It would be my pleasure to join you at the hotel for dinner this evening, at eight o’clock if that is agreeable. I am anxious to meet you and look forward to our preliminary discussions regarding the hotel.

Sincerely,

Paolo Falcone

Anna folded the note and slipped it in her purse. After registering, she told the concierge she’d be meeting a Mr. Falcone for dinner and inquired about making reservations.

“Ah, yes.
Signore
Falcone telephoned this morning. An outdoor table has already been reserved.”

“Oh. Thank you.” This Falcone fellow certainly seemed to be on the ball. She found herself wondering about the man. She’d have a better idea of who she was dealing with after dinner.

The concierge rang for a hotel employee and Anna followed the small man who arrived to gather her luggage onto the elevator. On the fifth floor, he ushered her into her room...and what a room it was. Decorated in the old style with exquisite antique furniture, the place looked fit for royalty. A tall bed nestled in a niche dominated one side of the room, its wooden headboard hand-painted with a floral design. The back wall of the niche was covered in pale green wallpaper, and from the large window next to the bed hung brocade drapes of a darker shade of green. Two armchairs flanked a green-tinged marble-topped table, on which a vase of white flowers had been placed. A hand-woven carpet covered the center of the marble floor. Above it, suspended from the high ceiling hung a chandelier of Murano glass. On the other side of the room, a settee, two heavy side chairs and a delicate-looking table fronted a bank of tall windows overlooking the canal.

Anna went directly to the wall of windows and gasped at the incredible view of the Grand Canal and the distinctive structure on the other side, the famous
Santa Maria
della
Salute
church. The view even offered a glimpse of St. Mark’s in the distance. Then she remembered the attendant and grabbed her purse to tip the man.

After he thanked her and left, Anna kicked off her shoes and plopped down on the cushiony bed. A nap, followed by a shower to perk up, would be just the ticket before her dinner meeting with Falcone.

* * * *

At five minutes to eight that evening, Anna sat at a table on the Bellavista Terrace, the hotel’s outdoor dining area overlooking the Grand Canal. The muggy evening air hung still and heavy, and Anna was glad she’d chosen the sleeveless black dress—sophisticated but comfortable—to wear for her dinner meeting with Falcone. Her fingers ran up and down the stem of the wine glass she’d been sipping from as she studied the octagonal exterior of the domed Basilica across the canal, admiring its classical Byzantine design.

She adored the timeless feeling of this city. No matter that the world had moved on, this place seemed rooted in the past, and she could easily imagine what life must have been like for people centuries ago, could almost picture the peasants and courtesans traveling along the canal. She was in the middle of wondering why her grandmother had never felt the desire to return to this jewel of a city when someone spoke beside her.

“It’s breathtaking, isn’t it?”

She looked up to see a tall man, his black hair tinged with silver at the temples, and impeccably attired in a lightweight navy suit, crisp white shirt and silk tie. Anna guessed his age to be near her own.

“Yes,” she replied. “You must be Mr. Falcone.” She rose and extended her hand. Her thighs brushed against the white tablecloth, pulling it with her. The glass of wine toppled, spilling burgundy liquid across the pristine white linen.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said quickly. Anna moved to mop up the mess with a napkin.

“Please, don’t distress yourself.” Falcone gestured to a waiter and immediately the man arrived to retrieve the soiled tablecloth and replace it with a fresh one. Anna felt her cheeks burn at the bad first impression she must be making.

Falcone ordered another glass of wine for her and one for himself, then shook her hand. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Ms. LaServa,” he said, his voice low and sinuous.

“Please, call me Anna, and I apologize for my clumsiness.”

“Nonsense. A woman as beautiful as you must never apologize. And you must call me Paolo.”

Anna felt herself blush again at Falcone’s words, but they also had the effect of putting her at ease. When the wine arrived, Falcone tipped his glass in her direction. “Here’s to new associations.”

Anna acknowledged the toast, took a sip of wine and got down to business. “I’m anxious to learn your expectations for the hotel on Poveglia. What do you envision for it?”

Paolo delved right into what the firm was hoping to achieve, a structure that would combine classic design with state-of-the-art amenities, a place that would appeal to both seasoned and first-time tourists.

“I’m curious,” Anna said, “about what prompted your firm to enlist an American company to design the hotel with so many outstanding design firms in Italy.” The question her grandmother had raised the other day was one she had wondered about herself.

Paolo’s smile did not quite reach his eyes. “As with everything else, it came down to a question of money,” he said. “Your firm’s bid was economically feasible. And besides, we
have
hired an Italian. LaServa is not an American name, is it?”

“I’m second generation,” Anna explained. “I don’t even speak the language, except for what I remember from my grandmother.”

“Ah. But you are still Italian, Anna. It’s in the blood.”

All through the sumptuous dinner—angel hair pasta, a large platter of seafood served with fresh vegetables, and a scrumptious selection of tiny pastries for dessert, Anna listened as Falcone set out his company’s vision for the hotel, interjecting a question here and there and growing more excited by the minute at the prospect of designing the building.

Before she knew it, they had finished their espresso. Only a few people remained on the elegant terrace. Glancing at her watch, she was surprised to discover it was nearly midnight.

“Well,” Paolo said, “I’m afraid I’ve talked your ear off. You must be tired from your long flight. Perhaps we could meet tomorrow at my office. I’ll have a package ready for you to review then. Would nine o’clock suit you?”

“Yes, of course, I’ll look forward to it. And I meant to thank you earlier for the wonderful accommodations—and for dinner tonight. I enjoyed it very much.”

Falcone rose. “You are most welcome. I’ll see you tomorrow then, Anna.”

Anna noticed his hazel eyes roamed briefly up and down her body as she rose to shake his hand. Thankfully, she managed not to spill anything this time. “Yes, goodnight.”

She watched him leave, noticing his strong shoulders and the confident way he carried himself. She had to admit, Falcone was extremely attractive, and it had been a long while since Anna had taken a man to her bed. The last time had been Ed, more than a year ago. She shuddered, remembering what a disaster that had turned out to be. She had no intention of making a mistake like that again. Brushing her erotic notions aside, she reminded herself that, for all intents and purposes, Falcone was her employer. She was here on business, and intended to keep things that way.

Venice, Italy

1576

Isabella hurried inside the house and quickly latched the door behind her. Despite the ordeal of her hazardous journey home, she felt no relief, only a sense of guilt at having arrived safely. Roberto, she reminded herself, at this moment languished near death in the nightmarish conditions at the
Lazaretto
.

She entered the kitchen to find her mother moving listlessly about as she prepared the midday meal. Her eyes, Isabella could see, were swollen and red from crying. She placed the satchel of food on the table, and Mamma turned her sad gaze on her. “Did you encounter anyone?” she asked anxiously.

“No, Mamma, no one,” Isabella lied, not wanting to upset her mother further. “When will Papa return?” She wanted desperately to talk to her mother about Roberto, but Isabella sensed it would be better not to. She had never seen Mamma look so wretchedly sad.

Her mother only shrugged in response and turned back to her work, although fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. Isabella retreated to her bedchamber, where she could shed her own tears for Roberto without upsetting Mamma.

As it turned out, her father did not arrive home until late that night. After watching her mother wander around the house like a wraith all day, Isabella had gone to bed early. A few hours later, she heard the latch at the front door lift, and Papa’s heavy footsteps as he entered.

Silently, she crept out of bed and cracked open the door to her bedroom so she could listen as he spoke to her mother in the kitchen.

At first, she could hear only the sound of Papa’s muffled crying. Somehow, the idea of her strapping, broad-shouldered father weeping seemed far worse than the grief she’d seen in her mother’s eyes earlier.